Formalities
by Riddelly
Summary: After centuries of something close to caring, it is impossible to say goodbye. And so he doesn't even try, despite the way his betrayal burns in Gabriel's honey-hued eyes.


**A/N** _I remember there was actually some scene in an episode with Crowley that made me think of him knowing about Gabriel's plan to sacrifice himself, but I'm not sure which one it was...? That was a long time ago, because my ideas sit around for eighteen years before I write them. Ughhh. In any case, here is this strange little thing. Ship all the ships. Especially angsty sugary angel/demon flirty ships. _

* * *

It's a very formal setup, which isn't unusual for their extravagant taste: a glass-sided restaurant elevated a few stories above a busy New York street. Suited waiters and plush booths and silver-trimmed menus rich with unpronounceable dish names and sprawling inked curlicues. The wine is decent and the steak horrible, and neither of them can even taste it.

The angel and the demon sit opposite each other, and one gazes towards the arch of the ceiling, while the other has eyes for nothing but the cold edge of the table.

"I suppose I needn't ask what all the extravagance is for," Crowley says. His lips form the words delicately, a hint of amusement even edging at the corners, though his gaze has never been colder. "Apocalypse, Winchesters—there's really no question to what you want to do, is there, darling?"

"Never was."

"Of course not."

The city continues to dart below, gleaming cars full of ignorant humans, humans who have no idea what is transpiring above them. Crowley speaks because he feels that he must, though his tongue is growing curiously numb, and a heat he can't explain is sparking around the edges of his eyes. The ceiling above is far too extravagant to be attractive, he observes, filling his mind with something else. He misses a couple of centuries back, when the roof of a rich hall would be layered with gold leaf and rich swoops of oil paint, curling and shading in portraits of chubby-cheeked angels in gossamer togas. He would often tease Gabriel about the inaccurate portrayal of his species; the response was always to appear dressed precisely like the absurd figures the next time they met, complete with a grin much more wicked than anything the Renaissance painters could ever have dreamed up, and Crowley was never one to offer objection.

The ceiling that he gazes towards now is exquisite only for its oddly geometric curves, something perhaps meant to be reflective of "modern art." He despises it. The present strives too hard to be unlike the past, most of the time, and often seems to leave something utterly unmemorable in its wake.

He taps along the edge of the table with a single finger.

"Shall I ask what compels you to engage in such a pathetic, _idiotic, _foolish, selfish, desperate endeavor?" he inquires carefully. Each syllable carries a trace of the burn that's singeing his chest with each breath—only a trace, for he cannot stand to hurt the angel, even now.

"It's pretty simple, really. I've got to do it. Those Winchesters, you know—nasty little sons of bitches, but they got me thinking. And I might as well cast off my title and stop pretending to be an angel if I can't do something against my own brothers."

A waiter pauses at their table and peers down with thin, dark eyes. "May I be obliged to replenish your wine?" he questions, a pinky finger flicking out towards the empty glasses sitting before them, bare save a faint trace of crimson clinging to their crystal bases. Crowley cannot remember taking so much as a sip.

"Please do."

Scarlet spills into the round cup of carefully spun glass, rippling as it rises. The waiter is gone a few moments later. This time, Crowley is carefully aware of how he extends his hand, plucking at the stem of the glass, tilting it towards his lip and draining it slowly. Gabriel's golden eyes flicker, try to lock with his, but he evades them. The liquid climbs down his throat in a single swallow. It's sweeter than he prefers. Probably the archangel's choice.

He sets the glass carefully back on the table, and spends several seconds adjusting the ripples of the pearl cloth below it, straightening it perfectly. Gabriel would normally laugh at such a meticulous motion. Now, he is silent.

"I won't mourn you."

"Wouldn't ever have expected it of you, sugar."

And he looks up. He doesn't want to, but he looks up and then he's staring into Gabriel's eyes, truly staring into them, and they're hot pools of pure gold, and they blaze with life and grace and all the millennia that this beautiful, impossible being has been alive—much longer than Crowley, for he is the genuine sort of immortal, and has existed since time began. He is meant to go down with it, as well. That is the way of reality.

Yet, while he may be an archangel, he is also a trickster. And, Crowley knows, trickster gods love nothing so dearly as defying reality.

"You don't have to do this," Crowley gets out, his voice so bruised and rapid that it smears his usually concise words into clumsy contractions. "Please, you don't have to do this. You had—you would do better to stay. It would be—Gabriel. The world needs you. Doing something like this—to _prove _yourself—" He hates his own desperation more with every breath that spills forth, for he is meant to be better than this. He is meant to be proper and suave and refined, and now he is here with a flush rising in his cheeks and his words stumbling and his hands curled into fists, nails cutting his palms, perhaps drawing the attention of the whole restaurant, but he cannot tell, for his eyes are locked with those of the archangel across from him, the only being in the entirety of the universe capable of ripping apart at him like this.

"I'm not just proving myself, love. There's a chance, you know. I could make it."

"We both know _damn well _that you will not survive this," he hisses.

Then they both pause, for a moment. And Gabriel's lips are parted, just slightly—for once, he has no sharp, smirking comment with which to return Crowley's words. And they have gone back and forth, argued and tussled for as long as Crowley can possibly recall; it's what their desperate relationship, whatever that may be, is built on, at this point.

"Well, I guess so."

"So you expect me to say goodbye, now."

"I did bring you out for dinner and all that."

There's something building inside of him, something hot and raging and furious and the same molten gold as Gabriel's eyes. He does not indulge it. Instead, the edges of his fingers slip slowly along the stem of the wine glass, moving up and down, pretending that sweat isn't gathering in the creases of his palms.

"And now I'll never get to return the favor."

"I am sorry. Part of me, at least—but I've got to do this. It's my time, you know?"

"Aren't you afraid at all?" Crowley demands.

Gabriel's light lashes flicker over his eyes in the briefest of docile blinks. Though his poise is still high-chinned and straight-shouldered, he is much more vulnerable than usual. There is no laughter in his lips, in his stare. He could be carved out of bronze.

"Yeah. I think anyone would be."

Crowley lets his own eyes drift shut, slowly, simply because he can't bear to watch the bright shot of light any longer. The darkness is cooler, and he can handle it better.

"I will not honor you. I will not respect you. I will tell no one that you were a hero."

"Fair enough."

And Gabriel's hand begins to move across the table, perhaps to try and twine with Crowley's fingers as they still run down the glass stem. But he can't—he won't indulge in that strange, burning seraphic touch again. So he turns, instead—turns and snaps away, materializing instants later on a mist-shrouded hill in northern Scotland, with the shocked gasp of the waiter and Gabriel's cool eyes still echoing cruelly through his mind.


End file.
